Winning
by a. loquita
Summary: Two can play at this game. Fluffy S/J established.


**Winning**  
Pairing: Sam/Jack  
Warnings/spoilers: none  
A/N: Thanks to mrspollifax for her beta work.

* * *

"They have oysters on the menu."

"Jack."

"What? Carter, you can't get good seafood in Colorado unless you're willing to pay three times these prices."

I am not falling for his innocence act. But I suppose I am partly to blame, I'm the one insisting on a first date. A nice dinner in a fancy Washington, DC restaurant after four months of getting naked together every chance we got; is that really too much to ask?

I admonish, "Behave."

Jack looks up from the menu. His face is pure honesty, no hint of teasing, and certainly not maliciousness.

"I just want you to have a nice evening." There's a beat before he adds, "Schnookums."

There's not even a smidgin of sarcasm, on the outside at least, but I know him too well, and this is my payback. I want normal, and he's going to kill me with normal. He wants me to squint my eyes, call him something rude, and pull out a Zat… So instead, I put the full-teeth smile on.

"Thanks." Two can play this game. "Maybe I will get the oyster appetizer."

The waiter shows his pimpled face and listens to each of us give our order. Jack's eyes burn into the back of the kid's retreat. "He'll get it wrong."

I blink once before venturing to ask, "What?"

"The waiter. He didn't write it down. Between the time you said what you wanted and when he goes back to the kitchen, he's going forget and get it all messed up."

I have the distinct feeling this is not part of the planned "annoying act," yet it's fitting in quite well somehow. I take a sip of wine, hoping that if I don't comment, Jack will let it drop. I was wrong.

"Why doesn't he just use those pads of paper like every other waiter on the planet?"

I helpfully suggest, "Maybe he's not from this planet?"

Jack glances at me, I assume trying to determine if I'm getting the "Jolinar spidey sense," as he calls it, or if I'm being sarcastic.

Somehow he concludes the latter. "We'd know about it."

"True. Dr. Cathan is sure that the tracking system we put into operation last month is working. It's tuned to a frequency which—"

"Carter."

"Yes?"

"No shop talk."

Right. Date. Talking about date stuff.

What do people talk about on dates again?

"So…" I got nothing. "Seen any good Simpson's lately?" Yeah, it's official. We're pathetic.

His eyebrows go to a hopeful level. "We could go home and—"

"No."

"OK, schnookums, whatever you want."

I'm going to Zat him later. At close range.

The oysters arrive. I pick one up and am about to slurp it down, until I realize the opportunity here. I'm not a flirt or a tease by any stretch. But I also know – OK, I've recently been clued into the fact – that it doesn't take much for me to have a significant effect on Jack. It's something I still don't understand, and I'm not entirely sure how to use it. I've never been good at this kind of date stuff since… never. But despite that, I am determined, so I take a deep breath. Here goes.

I hold the oyster in my hand and let the tip of my tongue run along the edge of the rough shell. I close my eyes, open my mouth, and form an 'O' with my lips as I suck the meat inside my mouth. Then I open my eyes again, attempting to look up at him in that come hither way I've seen actresses do in the movies.

Dear God, this is embarrassing.

Jack doesn't say anything. Nothing at all, which is possibly worse than any sarcastic pet name he might call me in this moment.

I shouldn't have tried this experiment without having a testable hypothesis first. I'm trying to be like ordinary people. But then again, I'm so outside of what is ordinary, who am I trying to fool here?

In spite of it, Jack takes my hand and leads me to the 8 by 8 floor of parquet. He pulls me against his body, and we're swaying to something that's being played by the band guys in the corner.

Jack's got his arm tight around me like he did that time I almost stepped backwards off the edge of a cliff on P7X-544 and he yanked me back from death.

"Carter," he whispers in my ear.

"Yeah?" I so did not gulp, I swear. We're on our first "official" date outside either of our houses, and I'm not screwing this up by becoming a pile of goo just because he's holding me so close.

"I like that you're not the kind of woman who needs my undivided attention while she's picking out her outfit and spending 45 ridiculous minutes fixing her hair—which yours looks great tonight, by the way. But even without my constant attention, you still somehow get that I want you. Constantly.

"I love the way your forehead creases when you want to order from the Thai place but you're being nice and agreeing to pizza because that's what I want. I love when you talk shop naked in bed. I like when we fight over the nutrient value of fruit loops in the morning. I hate when you leave, but I like knowing you're coming back. I love your willingness to follow as much as your ability to lead."

I pull back enough to look into his eyes, just to make sure that some alien entity hasn't taken over Jack O'Neill's body. There's honesty in what I find in his expression, but I'm still not sure.

"Carter, I love all of it. But I really hate restaurants with white tablecloths and stuck-up waiters that don't write down your order."

For some reason, I can't come up with anything to say. I can't seem to breathe either, but I'm going to blame the wine for that.

"Can we go now?" he asks.

"Yes."

"Can we _not _be normal?"

I will not cry. "Please."

"Oh, thank God." He lets go of my waist as we head back to our table. Jack informs the waiter, "We'll get our food to go."

I tap his hand, "And Jack?"

"Yeah?"

"If you ever call me schnookums again, I'll Zat you."

He grins. "I'm surprised you haven't already."


End file.
